Sweet Salt Air

by Barbara Delinsky

  Her last summers on Quinnipeague, he was in state prison, serving time for selling pot. Rumor had it that Cecily was the one who grew it. The islanders always denied that, of course. They didn’t want the feds threatening their cures.

  Leo had been nabbed for selling it on the mainland. Did he still grow it? She couldn’t smell it now, and she did know that smell.

  Having returned the shutter to the shelf, he was readjusting the hinge.

  “Want some help?” she called up. Wasn’t this was about risk?

  He snorted.

  “Four hands, and you’d have that right up,” she advised.

  “Two hands’ll do.”

  Charlotte looked past him toward the cupola. She didn’t see any bats yet, didn’t feel any ghosts. If Cecily’s spirit was floating around, it hadn’t cast a spell to keep Charlotte here. She remained because she was stubborn herself.

  He was staring at her.

  “I’ve done this before,” she said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I have. I’ve built houses.”

  “That so.” He didn’t believe her.

  “Half a dozen in El Salvador after the big quake there, and at least as many when tornados hit in Maryland. I know how storm shutters work.”

  He continued to stare.

  “All you need,” she said, freeing a hand to hold back the hair that blew loose again, “is someone to steady it while you fit the pins in the hinges.”

  “Really. I didn’t know that.”

  “Okay. So you did. But you could’ve had that hung and been down five minutes ago. Aren’t you cold?” She was appreciating every thick inch of her sweater, while his arms were ropy and bare.

  “I’m a man.”

  She waited for more. When nothing came, she said, “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Men run hot.”

  “Really.” Refusing to be baited, she returned her hand to her armpit, shifted to a more comfortable stance, and smiled. “Great. I’ll watch while you get that shutter hung. Maybe I can learn how you do it alone.”

  Apparently realizing he’d been one-upped, he grunted. “Fine. Since you know it all, here’s your chance.” He backed down, put the shutter on the ground against his leg, and gestured her toward the ladder.

  “I’m not lugging that thing up,” she warned.

  “No, but if you climb the fuckin’ ladder, I can hold the shutter while you to do the fitting. Assuming you can see. Your hair’s a mess.”

  “Thanks,” she said brightly and gripped the rail. Two ladders would have been better. She wasn’t sure she liked the idea of climbing this one with him at her butt. She would be at his mercy. But she did have a point to prove.

  So she began to climb, looking back every few rungs to see where he was. When she reached the top, she felt his shoulder against the back of her thighs. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought he was making sure she didn’t fall.

  But she did know better. Leo Cole had no use for women. If he was standing that close, he was toying with her.

  She didn’t like being toyed with—and, yes, her hair was in her eyes, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of pushing it back. Fortunately, she knew enough about hanging shutters to do it, hair and all. While he bore the weight of the wood, she easily lined up both pairs of hinges and pins, and that quickly it was done.

  Nearly as quickly, he backed down the ladder. By the time she reached the ground, he was stowing the hammer in a toolbox. The instant she was off the last rung, he reached for the ladder.

  “You’re welcome,” Charlotte said.

  He shot her a scornful glance.

  “I’m Charlotte Evans.”

  “I know.” He looked up to reel in the top half of the ladder, which clicked and clanged as it doubled on itself. “You’re doing a cookbook, and you want my mother’s stuff. Forget it.”

  He didn’t look like Cecily, she decided. He was too tall, too dark. According to what islanders said, Cecily’s hair had been pure silver from the first day she set foot on Quinnipeague. Charlotte recalled it being long and flowing, the woman herself petite, almost spritelike. “I’m sorry about her death.”

  “Her gardens aren’t public.”

  “How’d she die?”

  When the ladder was fully compressed, he secured the extension and carried the whole thing around the corner. The clink faded into the rolling surf, or into a garage or a shed, though she didn’t hear a door. He was empty-handed when he returned, walking past her to collect an assortment of tools from the ground near where the ladder had been.

  Charlotte was thinking he had tuned her out, when he knelt by the toolbox not far from her feet and said, “She got sick.”

  Cecily. “With what?” When he didn’t answer, Charlotte said, “She was a healer. Getting sick shouldn’t have been a problem.”

  Angling away, he dug into a pocket.

  “Did she die at home? Is she buried here?”

  After dumping a handful of nails in the toolbox, he stood again, went to the pole that held the floodlight, and turned it off.

  The darkness was a shock. But the moon was out now. As her eyes adjusted, she could see the gardens. Oh yes, something grew there, and it wasn’t last year’s crop. This was new growth, full-bodied and fresh. Several of the taller plants had even been staked.

  With a rustle, a small, fat creature appeared from a row on the left, crossed the dirt drive, and waddled off down a row on the right. Charlotte might have asked about it if she hadn’t suddenly spotted a deer. It was watching them from the edge of the trees, its pelt a tawny glow in the moonlight.

  She took a breath. “How beautiful.”

  “You should see her fawn.”

  “Where?”

  He hitched his chin toward the staked plants. “She leaves it while she goes looking for food.”

  “Why go anywhere, when she has a feast right here?”

  “Oh, she won’t eat any of this. She knows it’s mine.”

  Charlotte looked at him, but if there was humor in his eyes, the night hid it. “Seriously?”

  He didn’t smile. “You need to leave. I have work to do.”

  “I’ll say,” she dared. “Your window’s cracked, your drainpipes sag, and the shingles on your roof are lifting. Storm shutters are all well and good, but they won’t keep rain from coming in the roof.”

  He straightened an arm, pointing back toward the road.

  “But this was just getting fun,” she protested.

  He stared.

  “Tell you what,” she tried. Aim high, hit high. “Just say I can come back one day to see the gardens. One day. That’s it. Then I’ll disappear, and you’ll never hear from me again.”

  “Sneakin’ pictures with your iPhone, so the world knows what’s here? No way.” He hitched his chin toward the road. “You’re gratin’ on my nerves. Bear doesn’t like that.”

  “Bear?”

  “My dog.”

  “If you had a dog,” she countered, “it’d have gone after the deer and her fawn and whatever that little fat thing was.”

  He snapped his fingers. From behind a bush by the house, a creature emerged that was large, black, and hulking. It plodded forward on huge paws, stopping several yards from Charlotte, and stared at her with what she could only call feral eyes.

  She wasn’t afraid of dogs. But she didn’t like them. And this one? Not friendly. “O-kay,” she said lightly and backed away. “I was just being neighborly.”

  The dog continued to stare. Its ears were alert, its jowls wet enough to reflect a sliver of moon.

  After retreating a few more steps, making her intent clear as she put just that little distance between herself and Bear, she faced forward, chin up, and strode down the drive. She listened closely for the thud of paws or the jingle of a collar, but if the dog followed, it was silent.

  She didn’t look back until she was on the safe side of the Cole curve, and then it was only for a quick glance ove
r her shoulder. She wasn’t surprised to see the road deserted. Leo Cole didn’t want her around, but she hadn’t sensed untamed anger. Nor, in spite of the dog, had she sensed danger. Leo just wanted to be left alone.

  She could do that. She had no interest in the man.

  But those gardens … those gardens held her thoughts as she walked along the road. The promise of them was a drug, and she didn’t mean dope. That smell she couldn’t parse? It was fertility, healing, and hope all at once. She had to get back there, and not with an iPhone. She wanted to use her Nikon, ideally up close with a wide-angle lens, but with a zoom from afar and on the sly if need be. She could make those gardens come alive in print. She could capture that scent. Nicole’s readers would love it.

  So would Nicole. It was the least Charlotte could do.

  Chapter Seven

  CHARLOTTE DIDN’T TELL NICOLE THAT she’d been to the Cole place, simply because other things took precedence—namely, the arrival of summer. She knew it the instant she got out of bed Thursday, could see it in how the beach grass stood tall and hear it in the languid cry of the gulls. When she opened the window, she felt a special Quinnie warmth. This wasn’t the sticky heat of the city, but rather a gentling of air that was balmy and sweet. It was also very possibly fleeting, she feared, having spent enough summers here to know how quickly the cold could return. Seizing the moment was key.

  To that end, once they finished breakfast on the patio and felt the true warmth of that sun, she suggested the beach. Nicole looked at her, looked at the ocean, grinned conspiratorially, and rose.

  An hour later, with no mention whatsoever of the cookbook, they were in the Wrangler, driving in the direction of town only enough to pass the clam flats and reach Okers Beach. Two other cars were already parked on the sandy berm by the path; had it been the weekend, there would have been more. Houses like Nicole’s had their own beaches, but most were on the north side. Okers, being on the south and tucked into a Quinnie curve, offered calmer surf and softer sand. It also offered drive-bys from the Chowder House with sandwiches, chips, and drinks, though when Charlotte and Nicole arrived, lunch was still a ways off.

  Dropping their bags, they set up low beach chairs, put on sunscreen, and reached for their copies of Salt.

  “You’ll finish today,” Charlotte said, eyeing the small wad of pages Nicole had left.

  Nicole grimaced. “I know. I’m trying to read slowly. I do not want this to end.”

  Charlotte, who was barely halfway through, wasn’t rushing to finish either, and not for lack of interest. If she was bored, she wouldn’t finish; she liked books to sweep her up, and if one didn’t, it was gone. Salt offered contentment in a slow savoring, luxury in knowing there was more to read. “What is it about this book?” she asked. “It’s not like the plot is unique. Man and dog are alone. A perfect woman comes for the summer. They try to make a go of it.”

  “You make it sound trite.”

  “But the way he writes, it isn’t. That’s my point. What is going on here that has us holding our breath?”

  Nicole spread a hand on the page before her. “We love the hero. He’s vulnerable. He really needs her. I mean, he’s capable of living alone. He’s done it for years. But his life is empty.” She paused before adding a quiet, “We die for this. Every woman wants to be needed.”

  Even with the surf diluting it, Charlotte heard sadness. “Julian needs you.”

  “Does he? I mean, if he doesn’t want me with him now, what does that say?”

  “It says he doesn’t know how to handle this any more than you do. It says he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be doing.”

  Nicole stroked the book. “That’s what we love about Salt. This guy knows what he wants. He’s out on his lobster boat all day long, but he knows he wants to come home to this woman.” Her voice melted. “She’s his dream come true. Is that the sweetest?”

  “They won’t end up together,” Charlotte warned.

  “How do you know that?” Dismay, then accusation, “Charlotte Evans, you rat, you read the ending!”

  “I didn’t,” Charlotte protested, laughing.

  “You always used to, and it’s just as bad now as it was then, because I do want them to be together.” She swatted at Charlotte’s arm. “You are a spoiler!”

  Still laughing, Charlotte fended off another swat. “I have not read the ending. I swear. It’s just that I understand this woman. She lives in Dallas. She’s used to glitz and restaurants and shopping. How can she trade that for life on a small island?”

  “Easy, if she loves him enough.”

  “You are such a romantic.”

  “And you aren’t?”

  “Of course I am,” Charlotte conceded. “I love this book, too.” She had a hopeful thought. “Tell me there’s a twist coming that’ll allow her to stay.”

  “I’m not telling,” Nicole said and, lowering her sunglasses, began to read.

  * * *

  Thursday was the kind of day Charlotte had dreamed of when she agreed to come to Quinnipeague. They read, they walked the beach, they swam as much as the cold ocean water allowed. By the time the Chowder House van arrived, there were others on the beach. Nicole knew most as summer people, and while there were warm hellos, they kept to themselves.

  Summer people were that way. Most were escaping busy lives and welcomed the hush. Locals were the ones who talked.

  Today, there was just the smell of sunscreen and surf, hours without awareness of time, and when the sun was at its highest and warmest, crab cakes on buns, topped with Dorey’s special tartar sauce. “Did you know,” Nicole remarked, blotting her mouth with a napkin, “that the French were the ones who first popularized tartar sauce, which was named after the Tatars from Russia and the Ukraine, and that those early versions contained white wine vinegar and capers?”

  Charlotte peeled back her bun. “I don’t see capers.”

  “No. Dorey uses sweet pickle, parsley, and chive.”

  The Cecily Cole effect, Charlotte thought, but didn’t say it aloud. Rather, they went back to eating, back to a serenity stroked by the tempo of the surf and undisturbed by talk of either the cookbook or Julian. The only tears were Nicole’s when she finished reading Salt. And they were voluminous, punctuated by multiple omigods and a hand pressed to her chest to steady her heart.

  Still she refused to tell Charlotte how the story ended. Rather, after a dinner that night of pecan-crusted cod—a test, since it was one of the Chowder House’s signature dishes, and Nicole wanted to be sure the recipe was right—she let Charlotte clean the kitchen while she dove into a new book. Charlotte, who liked to linger with characters when she was done with a book, was dismayed that Nicole could so quickly put all that emotion aside, but she claimed she needed to immerse herself in another to compensate for the loss. It was escapism at its finest—denial of Salt, denial of MS. True to her word, she was quickly absorbed.

  So Charlotte went for a walk. There was no heading toward town this time. Right off, she went in the other direction. The night was mild and her step steady. She rationalized, telling herself that she’d been a slug all day—sitting, reading, eating—which was true. But she was also curious about what was happening at the house.

  She walked in moonlight this time, enjoying the mild air, the sweet smells of nascent blooms. One day of warmth, and the shrubs lining the road added the scent of roses to that of sea salt all the way to the Cole curve, where the tang of pine sap took its place.

  She slowed at the curve. She didn’t hear anything tonight. And sure enough, when she went on, all was dark. She walked until she came abreast of the gardens, which, too, were more strongly scented than before. There were flowers here, not just herbs. She would stake her novice nose on it.

  Stopping, she sat down right there in the middle of the drive. Far beyond trees, rocks, and the house, the surf rolled in, but its sound was muted enough by those objects not to hide that of small creatures on the move. A chipmunk darted across th
e drive, it’s tiny tail straight up. A frog jumped, croaked, jumped again, and disappeared into the plants with only the occasional diminishing croak.

  Focusing on the woods, she let her eyes adjust to the shadows, separating one tree from the next and—ahhhh, there was the doe. Standing straight and still, it might have passed for a tree had Charlotte not known to look. It was watching her. She held her breath, wondering if it would accept her benignity—wondering, actually, if it would proceed to eat Leo Cole’s goods now that he wasn’t around to see. It didn’t. In time, it simply turned and, without a sound, stepped gracefully into the pines.

  Charlotte was thinking that she really wanted to look for the fawn, only that would likely bring the doe back, and this wasn’t her land to disturb—when a dog barked. The sound was muffled; Bear was in the house. Anxious to get out and chase whoever trespassed?

  Sitting in the dirt without moving, she waited for the front door to open. Alternately, her gaze skipped to the side of the house from which she half expected a hulking brute of a black dog to burst. What would she do if it did?

  Run. Fast.

  But there was no sign of Bear, either in that minute or the next twenty, which was how long she sat filling her lungs with Cole air. Its intricate blend of flowers and herbs, warm now and intense, was hypnotic. She half expected that her legs would refuse to move if she decided to leave.

  But they didn’t balk when she stood. They were rested and filled with energy—actually took her back to Nicole’s house at a speed she would have marveled at had she been watching the time. Her mind, though, was filled with less honorable thoughts. She was wondering whether, if she returned another night, she might walk through that garden. She was wondering if the light of the moon would allow her to take pictures of the herbs there. She was wondering whether, if she was undetected then, too, she might borrow a few.

  * * *

  She might have shared the plan if Nicole had been in the kitchen when she returned, but she was asleep, and by the time Charlotte went downstairs Friday morning, the urgency had passed.

  Nicole was late joining her. Carrying her laptop, she had apparently been working into the wee hours, not sleeping at all. After reading a tip in one of her favorite farm reports, she had researched and blogged about a new artichoke cultivar with a heart was so tender it could be eaten without being cooked. It was the kind of cutting-edge news she liked passing on to her readers, and having done that at length, she said, she had earned the right to play.